


The Great Pineapple Pizza Heist

by Valpur



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blackwatch Era, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, M/M, Pineapple on pizza is controversial, Scion Hanzo Shimada, Venezia | Venice, Waiter Jesse McCree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-25 09:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15638388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valpur/pseuds/Valpur
Summary: Jesse McCree is a good agent and a mediocre waiter. Hanzo Shimada has questionable tastes in food and is a horrible customer.Brought together by their respective missions, nothing goes as expected. But, in the end, things couldn't be better.





	The Great Pineapple Pizza Heist

[source](http://amaerise.tumblr.com/post/177091684683/the-artworks-for-the-mchanzo-reverse-bang-done)

 

 

 

“ _Be careful, McCree_ ”.

The rich voice vibrated from the nearly invisible comm stuck in his ear. McCree smiled and brushed his already immaculate white shirt.

“To what, boss? I'm the personification of caution itself...”

“ _Says the one who tried to sneak a gun in his working uniform_ ”. There was a hint of dry humor in Gabe's voice – way less than McCree would've liked to hear, but here they were.

“Safety first. I'm the best for the job, and...”

A small commotion took place on the other side of the communication. McCree peeked from his dark, quiet spot in the mostly empty alley behind the venue – lots of customers crowded the many tables facing Piazza San Marco, but his colleagues were doing a great job covering him up during his break.

“ _... I get it Moira, but – listen, Jesse was the only viable option for the job, and – I_ know _he's a bit of a daredevil, but..._ ”

McCree grinned and leaned back against the cool bricks of the old building, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Too light for his tastes, but his cigarillos had been banned to preserve his incognito persona, together with his tattoo, now properly hidden under the white sleeve.

“ _No no, it_ had _to be him!_ ”, Gabe insisted from remote. “ _Who else? I need to stay here and coordinate the operation, Genji is a cyborg and you're terrifying, Moira!_ ”

“Is that all? I thought you picked me 'cause I'm charmin' and good lookin' – now I'm wounded!” McCree whispered, pouting a bit.

“ _I'll have you reconsider your concept of 'wounded' if you don't behave, kid_ ”, Gabe snarled. Moira chuckled in the background. “ _Bartalotti is at arm's reach already, but we need more details to frame him properly. Jesse, remember that one of his men is a...”_

“... habitue of the place here, I know. And that I'm expected to keep my eyes wide open, my ears up and to listen, watch and not intervene”, he concluded in a vaguely bored tone. “You briefed me already, boss...”

“ _I know, but I don't like the idea of having you out there on your own. And undercover, to boost_ ”. Gabe sighed, and McCree could clearly picture him draw his hand down his face and pull his goatee in exasperation. Gabriel Reyes had been increasingly nervous in the last days, the dark circles under his eyes deeper and darker than ever, and such exhaustion showed in his tone, too. “ _Don't do anything rash. Don't do anything I wouldn't do”_.

McCree's smile was genuine now. No matter how nervous he might be, it was good to know that someone cared about his well being.

“I'll be fine, and by night I'll have the intel you need. I'll bring y'all pizza, too...”

“ _I want pineapple on mine”_ , Genji grumbled from afar, and McCree tut-tutted.

“Don't be ridiculous, we're in Italy. The locals will kick my ass to their nonna's place to get me a proper scolding, should they suspect I'm pro pineapple on pizza!”

Gabe's hissing breath sounded almost like laughter.

_“I'm glad you prepared properly. You're on your own, agent McCree: try to come back all in one piece”_.

The line fell silent, and McCree sighed and leaned his head against the wall. The cylinder of ashes and embers burned between his fingers, and the heat was almost unpleasant against his skin.

No big deal, after all: go undercover as a waiter and monitor one of Antonio Bartalotti's minion's favorite restaurants for information. Piece of cake: McCree's interview for the role had been a masterpiece of bright smiles, humble words, flawless English and stuttered yet charming attempts at Italian. He got the job in the blink of an eye, and now it was up to him to bring Blackwatch a step closer to handing that asshole Bartalotti to justice.

He inhaled the last of the smoke from his cigarette and blew it out in a precise series of rings. He missed Peacekeeper, and right now he couldn't effort to check his hideout; having his gun far from his side made him feel vulnerable, but there was no reason to expect a fight any time soon.

_It's gonna be alright. As long as I don't pour wine on one of the customers, I'll be fine._

The back door creaked open, and McCree stood up at once.

“Jesse, are you done there?”

The girl, half hidden behind the door, with her short blonde hair and dark eyes, shot him a serious look. Her thick accent made it almost impossible to catch her words, but McCree had an ear for languages.

He winked and threw the butt of his cigarette in the nearest manhole, rubbing his hands on his thighs.

“Yup, ready as I can be”, he replied. “Maybe there's time for a coffee before I get back to...”

“No, listen, there's a guy, he just got in and he only speaks English, but I can't understand what he says”. She blushed lightly – one of the reasons McCree had got the job was the need for a fluent English-speaking waiter to face the hordes of international tourists. “I know I should manage him, but could you... you know... as a personal favor?”

She smiled, and McCree nodded.

“How could I say no to your pretty little face, _tesoro_? Come on, show me this difficult customer of yours”, he said, patting Annamaria's shoulder as he got back in. “We'll have him ask for the most expensive bottle of wine...”

The girl relaxed visibly and guided him in the crowded restaurant. Every single table was taken, and a variety of Italian dishes (often corrected to meet the international clientele's tastes – according to his training for the mission, McCree was sure that Venice was not Italy's best place to taste pizza) filled the air with their smell.

“Thank you, Jesse. I know you've been working here just for a week, but I don't want mister Mantovani to suspect I can't take an order properly, and if you could help me...”

Mister Mantovani, the owner of the Leone d'Oro restaurant, was currently busy entertaining a very loud conversation on his phone behind the counter; he waved his hands so much he almost knocked another waiter over.

Annamaria pulled at McCree's sleeve.

“Here, in the corner under the flowers”, and she pointed at the luxuriant wysteria on the left of the _dehors_. “The hot guy with dark hair and a beard, can you see him? All dressed nice in black and blue, with...”

McCree blinked.

'The hot one' was a more than acceptable description on its own, thank you very much.

The man was indeed sitting under a cascade of lilac flowers, and when he put down the glass of wine he was sipping, McCree's mouth hung open for a moment. Sharp cheekbones, perfectly trimmed beard, big eyes with lashes so dark it looked like the stranger was wearing eyeliner – and that pristine white shirt seemed to be stretching to the point of ripping over a broad chest and thick bicepses. Under McCree's appreciative stare, the guy wiped his mouth with the napkin and proceeded to roll up his sleeves.

“That's unfair”, Annamaria sighed dreamily, and McCree couldn't but agree: the vast expanse of a detailed, large tattoo starting on the man's wrist and disappearing under his cuffs was something more than interesting.

Still, McCree was there on Blackwatch's behalf, and he had a job to maintain – and a mission to carry out. He patted his colleague's shoulder and adjusted his tie with a grin.

“Let me take care of him”, he said. He threw a white towel on his arm, squared his shoulders and left Annamaria to her corner of concern. He quite enjoyed the sensation of several eyes scanning him with blatant interest as he passed among the tables, but his current target was just ahead, too busy checking on what looked like a ridiculously expensive watch to pay him much attention.

McCree had a moment to inspect the stranger up close, and his heart leaped a bit in his chest. Well, wasn't that the prettiest thing he'd laid eyes upon in a long time?

_Not the most professional interest, isn't it, old boy?_

But then the man looked up at him, and McCree quickly scrambled for a perfectly polite smile. Maybe a bit too perfect and polished, and definitely too sudden to be anything short of creepy.

He recollected himself enough to blink and turn his grimace into a more appropriate and sincere grin. No easy task, when the hottest customer in the whole restaurant was looking at him with steel-hard and piercing dark eyes.

“Good evening, sir, and welcome to the Leone d'Oro. I'm Joel and I'm going to be your waiter, how can I...”

“That's some very American welcome. I've been in Italy for quite some time now, and it's the first time a waiter greets me with these words”, the man interrupted him in a deep voice that vibrated with hidden irony.

McCree resisted the urge to slap his forehead and roll his eyes, struggling to keep his most appropriate demeanor, with just a hint of extra charm in his smile.

“Pardon me, sir, but you know, I haven't been working here long, and old habits die hard”.

The man leaned back in his chair, and interest tilted his lips into a smirk.

“So I was right – an American waiter in Venice. A nice title for a movie, if you asked me”.

“Just a guy trying to make an honest living by putting his previous working experience to a good use in a popular touristic location”, McCree shrugged. Keeping his southern drawl under control was no easy task when he was being so distracted by his customer's long fingers drumming absent-mindedly on the white tablecloth, or how the buttons on his chest seemed to moan in agony with every deep breath their owner took. “Anyway, I hope you're enjoying Venice. What can I bring you?”

The man opened the menu by his left elbow and ran his fingertip down the pizza's list.

“Since I'm here, might as well try some local delicacies...” he mumbled, and McCree bit the tip of his tongue. He'd prepared extensively for Blackwatch's trip to Italy, and he'd learned a couple of things; among them, that Venice wasn't pizza's homeland.

_Still, it's still Italy we're talkin' about. It's probably gonna be more traditional than what I had back home, so why disrupt this guy's hopes?_

He swiftly pulled his small notebook from the pocket of his pants, fished a pen from his apron and waited patiently with unfaltering courtesy. The stranger there didn't look like a tourist at all; he was clearly from Japan, but visitors coming from that part of the world usually lacked that sort of dangerous aura.

_Oh, sugar, what an interestin' tale you could tell..._

“Curious, I was sure it was a specialty...” the guy said to himself. He looked up to McCree, startling him a little. “Is it possible to add toppings to the listed options?”

“What – oh, yeah, sure. As long as it's in the kitchen, we can add whatever you want, sir”.

The man closed the menu with a flick of his fingers and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Good. I'll have pineapple pizza, then”.

McCree blinked, the tip of his pen hovering on the paper.

“I... I...”

“Is there a problem?”

Had he had the chance to tell the truth, the answer would've been yes. McCree frantically checked on his pre-mission studies and remember a crucial detail.

Italian people were obsessively proud of their culinary tradition.

And if there was one thing they hated – and they were many, those people were strict when it came to eating – pineapple on pizza was on top of the list.

McCree could very well picture mr. Mantovani's reaction to such a request: his tan face would've gone even darker, his green eyes even smaller. Oh, sure, he wouldn't refuse any feasible order from a customer, but this didn't mean he could keep quiet about it, at least in the privacy of the kitchen. And having heard his temporary boss's list of Italian profanities after a guest had ordered some cappuccino with her carbonara spaghetti, McCree knew what the effect of pineapple on pizza would've been.

“No, of course not, but since you were interested in trying some more local-specific options, may I suggest a capricciosa? Or even a margherita, it's simple but it truly incarnates the nature of pizza”.

The man cocked a thick, dark eyebrow and tilted his head.

“What's wrong with pineapple?”

“Nothing at all, but it's – er – not an Italian thing, I'm told”.  
  
“Of course it is, it's _pizza_!”

“But... it's an American tradition. Or whatever, it's not Italian in the least. Pineapples don't even grow here, so it can't be, but if...”

“Whatever, I want pineapple on my pizza”, the man frowned, looking positively disappointed. “I'm perplexed, this restaurant was listed among the top ones for the quality of its service, but...”

“Now excuse me?” McCree snapped, his fingers clutching the pen. “I haven't been rude in any way, and if you want pineapple I'll give you pineapple, no big deal!”

“I hate to say this, but have they hired you for your good looks perhaps? You really don't have the tone of a waiter, and...”

“Hey! That was really inappropriate!”

“No, it was a legitimate doubt, since you took my request as a personal insult!”  
  
“Oh for fuck's sake, of course I haven't, ain't gonna let some uneducated prick...”  
  
“What did you call me?”

The man's face blushed a fierce red and his eyes turned to slits of fury. Inside McCree's ear, the tiny comm vibrated with Reyes' voice.

“ _Jesse, what the fuck are you doing there? You're not paid to argue with your customers! Drop that act immediately and behave!”_

“He's the one who started it!” he replied loudly, and the customer shook his head.

“What? Well, after this you can bet I'll give this place one star on TripAdvisor, I've never been treated like this in my whole life!”

“ _Agent McCree, apologize now or you'll blow our cover!”_

“The hell I am”, he growled. Meanwhile, someone in the restaurant was starting to notice something was off with that specific table – namely, mr. Mantovani, who peeked from the kitchen and squinted menacingly at him. McCree chewed on his lip and tried not to snap the pen in half out of sheer frustration. Under the owner's questioning stare and Gabe's profusion of urgent whispers, he tried to swallow anger and outrage, and took a long, deep breath through his nose.

“Fine”, he said eventually. Something of the kid who'd defied Overwatch's authority over ten years before was emerging to the surface, and he pushed him back down under layers of discipline and responsibilities. “Sorry, alright? Anyway...”

“An apology? A lame one, at that? If you think it will be enough to...”

The door opened, and the musical ring of the bell at the entrance announced the arrival of a new customer.

Both McCree and the annoying (but still cute, damn him) guy turned to look, and everything went suddenly still.

“ _Jesse, that's him”._ Gabe's voice was deeper than ever, flat and hard.

Had he had any doubt, that change in his boss's tone would've wiped them away.

The man standing at the door, bald and almost as big as the two bodyguards trying to be inconspicuous behind him, waited politely for Annamaria, who rushed to welcome him with a smile and a profusion of greetings in Venice's soft accent.

McCree almost forgot the quarrel and nodded, as if Gabe could see him.

Bartalotti's man.

“ _We need him alive – no, Moira, you can't bring him back from the dead 'just in case'! - or... well, no, we need whatever information on his chief's location. If you can follow him after his lunch, Genji will back you up, alright? Now unengage from serving stuff and keep an eye on the target”._

Swallowing pride was much easier when there was a bigger goal ahead, so McCree closed his eyes briefly and wore his brightest smile once more.

He turned to the table to find its occupant still staring at the door. Now that the man wasn't pestering him, there was something enticing in his absolute concentration: the short black hair, combed back in shiny spikes, and the severe profile of his noble nose gave him the look of something dangerous and primal, like a dragon.

“I'm deeply sorry for the inconvenience”, McCree spat out. Hearing his voice, the stranger jumped in his seat and turned to look at him, slightly confused, as if he couldn't remember what their discussion was about. “You'll have your pineapple pizza in a moment, sir”.

“Ah. Yes. Thank you”, the other said in a whisper, going back to stare at Bartalotti's man, now escorted to his table on the opposite side of the room.

“Yer welcome”, he blurted out. Gabe's voice buzzed in his ear again, distracting and urgent.

“ _Giacomo Schiavoni, he's been working for Bartalotti for almost a decade now. Not smart, rather skilled, tougher than he seems – his two friends are just big and dumb, they should pose no threat to you”._

McCree nodded right when he shouldn't have, but nobody – especially the pretty stranger in front of him – noticed. He turned around and slipped among the tables, his comm still on.

_“We need the whereabouts of our good old Antonio, whatever it takes – Genji, enough grumbling, I can't send you along, I need you here – yes, I_ know _a cyberninja can always come in handy, but... Moira, stop smirking, you! McCree, I don't care if Schiavoni stumbles and breaks his neck falling in a canal, make him speak first and we're fine”._

“What about yer 'we need him alive'?” McCree grinned, reaching the back door.

_“Shut up, you too”,_ Gabe said, suddenly more serious than annoyed. “ _Jesse, I trust you._ We _trust you, even Moira does, so do your best and it will be more than enough”._

“Aw boss, wanna make me cry?” he muttered, but the line suddenly fell silent.

Time for talking was over, and action awaited.

The rush of adrenaline washed over his nerves, clearing his mind and thoughts of concern and replacing it with technical details – Peacekeeper hidden under a loose plank in an empty attic just a couple of alleys behind the restaurant, its weight reassuring in his hand, the way his finger rested at ease on the trigger.

He could do it. Of course he could, he'd never doubted it – not when Gabriel Reyes himself had deemed him the most suitable for the mission.

A bubble of pride swelled in his chest and he took a deep breath, lifting his left hand to ruffle his sideburns.

Alright, the plan was simple. Tailing their target was no big deal for him, he knew how to become virtually invisible in the crowd when he wanted to, and he had plenty of time to retrieve his gear before...

“Ah, here you are, Joel! What did that guy want?”

Annamaria's sudden words froze him. McCree turned around with a smile and realized the order in his hand was now a crumpled mess.

“Ah! Er – he wanted a... a...”

To his horror, he realized he hadn't written any note down, and Annamaria looked at him with a knowing curl of her lips.

“Let me guess, he's cute enough to distract you too...”

“Pineapple. Pineapple pizza”, he quickly answered.

His young colleague frowned in disapproval. Exactly the reaction McCree had expected.

“Ugh. Well, if he pays for it, he'll get it. I take you didn't talk to the kitchen staff or... wait. Joel, are you alright?” She leaned closer, and despite being so young and delicately built, she suddenly showed the steely determination of a concerned mom. “You seem distressed, and not in a good way...”

“Yeah, I... received a call. From my dad”, he improvised, and so far it was not entirely a lie. “He's not feeling well, and I wish I could be with him”.

“Oh! I'm sorry, Joel”, she said sympathetically, holding her hand out and placing it on McCree's arm. “He's back in New Mexico, isn't he?”

“What? No, no, he's here, too”. His voice started to sound nervous, and even if it made his pantomime believable enough, it also betrayed his agitation. On the one hand, he needed to keep the job (for now, at least), but on the other Annamaria was wasting too much of his time.

“Here? I thought you were alone in the city”, she insisted. A thin line appeared between her dark eyebrows, and McCree cursed inwardly.

_Yer too smart for yer own good, girl. You have no idea what yer meddlin' with..._

“I suppose we didn't have much time to get to know each other properly, you and I, am I right? He's here, too, and... can you give me five minutes? Just for a quick phone call, I'll be right back...”

“Sure, I mean I think I'll survive without you for a while. But don't leave me alone here, please!” she said with a smile that kicked McCree's heart from his chest.

_I'm so sorry, my dear Annamaria – yer good and kind, and I'm not sincere. Oh well, I guess I'll find a way to apologize, one way or another..._

The relieved sigh he let out was indeed genuine. He took Annamaria's hand and squeezed it briefly.

“You're an absolute angel”, and he opened the door with his elbow, taking in the girl's friendly eye-roll and leaving the chaos of the restaurant.

He calmly walked to the corner, rummaging in the back pocket of his slacks to pretend to get his phone; the moment he turned around an abandoned garbage bag, he dropped the act and started to run.

This was his only chance, and blowing his cover was the last of his problems. He swiftly undid the apron from behind his back and dropped it on the cobblestones; his shirt was somewhat too tight on his arms and shoulders, and when he grabbed a gutter to anchor himself for another abrupt turn, his sleeve ripped right above his elbow.

“ _Good, we've got you in our sight”,_ Gabe resumed. “ _I wish I could say Schiavon and his men are up for a feast, but they only ordered a round of espresso and some water, so you have less than ten minutes to get ready...”_

“Wow, no pressure at all”, McCree growled. He crossed another, even narrower alley and ran down its length – lucky for him it was empty, except for an alarming gathering of pigeons that scattered in outrage when he disrupted their meeting.

_“Cheer up, kid, if you're not happy with your career in Blackwatch you can always back up as a waiter. It's a more respectable working line, you know?”_

“Let me guess”, he sneered, gliding and stopping with a couple of hops in front of a dark and damp staircase, half hidden in the darkness of the tall buildings even in broad daylight. “Yer in command 'cause of yer astounding humor... 'Gabriel Reyes was hilarious', that's what they'll say about you”.

_“Hurry, I see a bike approaching”._

“Gotcha”, McCree said. He ran up the stairs two steps at a time, and three stories later, slightly breathless, he stopped and picked a small key from his pocket. The door in front of him, rusty around the keyhole and scraped everywhere else, where the paint was coming off the chapped wood, was anonymous enough not to raise any suspicion. He opened it with swift gestures and stormed inside what looked like a storage room. Mostly empty but for a metal cupboard in a corner. Its upper surface was all covered in dust, and McCree roughly grabbed it by the sides to move it.

The wooden plank underneath was no different from the others, except for a tiny indenture in a corner. Enough for McCree to insert his fingertips and pull, not without a lot of cursing.

_“Hey, language!”_ Gabe said. McCree ignored him and proceeded with his combo of profanities and meticulous preparations.

With so little time he only grabbed the essentials – his gun, all the ammos he could carry at his belt, his hat. And his trusty silver flask: he shrugged and opened it with his teeth, chugging down the remains of his bourbon and sliding it in the front pocket of his shirt.

Gabe wouldn't approve, but he couldn't see him. “ _Lontano dagli occhi, lontano dal cuore_ ” - out of sight, out of mind.

And with this, the taste of alcohol still strong on his tongue, he was ready.

Leaving through a window called for some drastic measures, because the only one he could fit through was blocked. He kicked it open, shattering the glass, and threw his legs over the windowsill.

“Hey, boss, gotta tell you, we're not getting our deposit back for this place”, he said, and Gabe sighed.

_“You're too high maintenance for Blackwatch's good, but unfortunately we need you. Where are you?”_

McCree pressed his hat on his head and looked up. The roof was near enough for him to grab its edge, and the less he looked down, the better. He didn't answer straight away, only crouched on the windowsill and stretched until his fingers closed around the roof tiles.

_One, two... three._

He flexed his arms and, with a grunt, he pulled himself up.

It was routine, and he crawled on the roof with little to no effort; still, he found he could breathe more easily once his feet were steadily standing on a solid surface.

“Where am I? Well, let me say Venice is exceptionally picturesque from here...”

And even if he was no tourist, he had to admit it was true – the vast expanse of red roofs under the last light of the day, the slender shape of San Marco's bell tower, and in the distance the glimmering of the lagoon were sights to behold.

“Boss, if anything goes according to plans, do we get to stay here for a couple of days longer? Because I'd like to...”

_“Less chatting, more interrogating. Come on, hurry!”_

McCree shook his head and started to move on the roof. Jumping from building to building to get back above the Leone d'Oro and in sight of Schiavoni was easier done than said – better not focus on the risks and just let his muscles and balance do the trick.

“Time?” he asked eventually, when he crouched behind a chimney and caught his breath for a moment.

_“It took you eight minutes to get there. Genji, you owe me ten bucks – he was sure it would've been at least nine minutes”._

_“_ Tell him he's a horrible friend”, McCree mumbled. Yet, he was in position, and this was a good start already.

_“He says he's just pushing you to be the best. Schiavon's paying right now, he'll be out soon”._

“Phew. Right on time”. He loaded his gun and leaned back against the chimney.

And now he was on his own. Everything seemed to go quiet around him – inside him. A moment of peace before the chaos surged again.

It was up to him to sedate it.

A familiar bell rang somewhere three stories under him, and McCree grinned. He peeked from his spot to see the light from a lamppost glisten on Schiavon's head; the man was chatting with his bodyguards, and pushed an unnecessary pair of dark sunglasses up his crooked nose.

_Like that, just go, nice and easy. Don't mind lil' ol' Jesse stalkin' you – I'm with the good guys, after all..._

But as he prepared to slither on the roof and down a balcony or two to get back on the streets, something suddenly felt off. Beyond his senses, beyond rationality, an unpleasant sensation gnawed at the back of his neck.

Sixth sense, somebody called it, or animal instinct. For him, it was just good luck saving his ass from impending danger, even when he was too distracted to notice it. He slowly turned around, following the direction of such tension, and squinted in the shadows.

Up here there was just him, the pigeons, a fat white cat trotting away in the darkness – and a flash of blue.

McCree blinked, sure it was just his imagination, but then he saw it again: blue and white, on the top of the nearest building. He squinted, and more details popped from the background. The bold curve of a bow – a _bow_! Of all weapons! - and a shock of black hair, and he knew that the profile he could barely make out was sharp as diamonds.

“I can't fucking believe it...” he whispered.

“ _What? McCree, what's wrong?”_

“That handsome son of a bitch! I've got this, boss, but... consider me offline for a moment, mh?”

_“Don't you dare, McCree! What are you...”_

The last thing McCree needed right now was Gabe growling orders and warnings in his ear, so he just switched the comm off and stood up.

Kneeling by the gutter was the very same pineapple pizza guy from the restaurant, and he was undoubtedly nocking an arrow in his old-fashioned weapon.

McCree jumped up and moved a step in that direction.  
  
“Hey! Hey you, there!” he called, and the stranger jumped and turned to stare at him. “What are you doin' here, it's my... bloody fucking _hell_!” he screamed when the arrow left its original target and hissed in the air, hitting the chimney a mere palm from McCree's shoulder.

He gasped and turned to cast a look at the arrow, its shaft vibrating between two bricks. When fury ignited in his chest he stared once more at the stranger, baring his teeth and growling under his breath.

“You little son of a bitch”, he hissed, but got no chance to add anything: the archer turned his back on McCree and jumped from the roof.

McCree lost no time calling or protesting any further: whoever that man was, whatever he wanted, they were after the same target, and this bode no good. He rolled Peacekeeper around his finger and pushed the hammer down, and after spitting his outrage on the tiles he ran after his new target.

_If luck assists me, my new friend has a sprained ankle and won't bother me anymore._

Predictably enough, luck did  _not_ assist him. When he reached the spot the archer had jumped from, he looked down – and saw him. A dark silhouette darting down the lower level of roofs, leaping to follow Schiavoni's trail. The shiny bald head was still in sight, and this was good news, but on the other hand, McCree knew he had to move, or both his targets would've slipped away.

The archer briefly turned his head up to shot McCree an almost mocking look, then resumed his run.

“Fine, then!” McCree snapped. He stopped short of jumping down – fifteen feet to the nearest balcony – and frantically scanned the environment. Schiavoni and his men were on their own, strolling down a mostly empty alley, but no matter how fast his unexpected adversary could run, it was a dead end. The alley opened into a fork, no big obstacle for a shot, but for a man? A completely different matter. But McCree had his share of knowledge of Venice's roofs, and a couple of tricks up his sleeve...

He turned around and ran in the opposite direction. Down a gutter and up again, Peacekeeper heavy at his belt, his arms flexing and his shirt ripping some more on his shoulders; he reached the end of the building, then dropped one level on a long series of balconies and sprinted back toward his previous position. And somewhere, the rest of Blackwatch was cursing his name in at least four different languages.

Even if he couldn't see the archer, Schiavoni was still partially in sight (and, most importantly, very much alive), so the stranger couldn't be that far. His assumption proved correct when he leaped over a metal railing covered in flowers and landed one floor below, breathless.

He barely had the time to stand upright when a ruffling sound made his head jerk up.

Too close for a clear shot, the archer was standing right in front of him, his eyes wide and his hair standing up in many spikes. McCree got momentarily distracted by something in the stranger's eyes – he looked familiar... but of course, the restaurant and all. He shook his head and slapped his most charming, lethal smile on his face.

“Looks like we meet again, ain't it, darlin'?”

“Move. You're standing in my way”, the other man snarled.

“Well shoot, to be honest”, McCree took his revolver and absent-mindedly bounced it in his palm, “ _you_ are the one going after my own man. And yer too pretty to get hurt, so...”

Only a decade of training and a whole life of constant vigilance and fear for his life prevented McCree from yielding to the impact. He bent his knees and crossed his arms in front of his face a split second before a polished black shoe could kick him in the jaw; fingers still tight around his gun, he grunted and pushed back, unbalancing his opponent.

“Schiavoni has to die”, the archer said. McCree dodged another hit, a punch going straight for his throat, and tried to grab the man's arm. He could as well have tried to catch a fish with his bare hands, because his fist closed on thin air.

The next attack got him. The knee that hit him in the ribs made him queasy for a heartbeat; then the pain came, and it brought more anger along. Crushed against the railing, McCree shot his arm forward, ignoring the dull throbbing in his side, and went for the man's chest.

Be it a lucky strike or the ability of a professional to take advantage of his opponent's unbalanced position, it worked. McCree grabbed the lapels of the archer's vest and twisted his fist.

“I don't think so”, he said in a still strangled voice. Even in the middle of a battle, he had to acknowledge that the archer was something more than pretty, especially now that his composure was crumbling; the white shirt was open on his chest, where a couple of buttons had fallen, and it was coming untucked from his pants. The rigid collar dug into the man's thick neck, making the veins bulging there even more visible.

“He's my contract”, he whispered viciously in his face; his breath faintly smelled like the wine he'd been drinking. A grip as hard as steel closed on McCree's wrists, and next thing he knew was that his arm was stretched to the point of breaking, pulled back as the stranger pushed him against the railing.

From this rather uncomfortable position, with the iron bar crushing his sternum, McCree had a clear vision of the alley. Schiavoni and his guys were quietly strolling on the pavement; ahead of them, next to a restricted parking area sign, a black car. A man in a dark suit was leaning against the trunk, covering the license plate.

“Fuck...”

McCree squirmed, trying to wrestle himself free, but only managed to nearly dislocate his shoulder; he kicked back in what he himself realized was a pathetic counterattack, and only stomped on the bare concrete of the balcony.

The hard pressure of a knee slowly crushed the back of his thigh, and soon all air left McCree's lungs when several dozens of pounds descended flat on his back.

“If you don't want an arrow through your skull, you will stop fighting and leave”, the stranger breathed in his ear. He was warm, panting lightly, and he smelled good.

_Damn, McCree, why are you noticing that right now? Bad timing, bad timing!_  
  
Fidgeting some more made McCree moan for the flame of tension in his arm, and for something else he wasn't that keen to admit. Peacekeeper was still in his hand, and the idea of turning it against his opponent briefly crossed his mind, popping like a bubble. He still had morals, and shooting a (hot as hell but also annoying, ill-timed, infuriating and too skilled to fit the definition) civilian was not what Reyes had trained him for.

All was left, was diplomacy.

“Listen – no, listen, for real!” he muttered, trying to turn his head to look at the archer. He caught nothing but a glimpse of red cheeks and glimmering dark eyes: again, that sense of familiarity unsettled him. “I need Schiavoni alive, but not for long!”

“You're not very convincing”, and the stranger twisted his arm some more. Teasing bastard.

“Would you shut yer trap a moment, for fuck's sake? He's too worthy to die! He knows relevant stuff!”

“And all I know – and it's more than enough – is that there's a nice fat bounty on his head. Everything else is...”

“Oh, _great_ , a bounty hunter, yer the coolest guy around, happy now? But we're talkin' of international security here!”

A moment of silence. Schiavoni's driver stood up and waved, and the three other men nodded at him.

“Please!” McCree gasped urgently. “I can't let him go, I can't let you kill him, I need to know what...”

“You talk too much”, the stranger whispered to his ear, warm and smooth. Too smooth for McCree's already faltering self-control.

Time froze for a moment, and suddenly the weight on McCree's back lifted. Fast as a snake, he turned around, ignoring the residual strain in his shoulders, but when he spun on his heels to look at the archer everything went white – then red with pain, and eventually black when the strength of the punch that got him on his nose shut his brain down.

Not for long, because McCree was not new to broken bones, nosebleeds or traumas; he blinked confusion away before he could fall on his ass and stumbled to his feet.

He was alone. Of the archer, nothing was left but the trail of blood he'd drawn from his nose: McCree licked it from his upper lip.

“Well, shit”, he mumbled, running the back of his armed hand on his mouth. His fingers went for the comm, but never reached it: the sudden clamor from the alley made his heart clench and his worst fears gain definition. Grabbing the railing, he peeked down, but the noise was gone already.

And for a good reason: four people lay dead around the car, each of them sporting a single dark shaft through the chest or neck.

McCree's knees gave way. He staggered backward and shook his head.

Failure had a foul taste in his mouth.

He snatched the hat from his head and gritted his teeth; oh, he could very well imagine Gabe's voice scolding him for being too rush, for ignoring their plan and everything...

But that was a tragedy for another time. He technically still had a cover, and he could as well exploit it some more. The Leone d'Oro was a popular place, and there was a good chance to meet someone else from Bartalotti's crew while he was there...

This meant he had to rush back to his job. There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for his ripped shirt and bloodied nose (he got ran over by a motorbike, fell into a canal, got mugged? Whatever, he could improvise), and maybe he could move mister Mantovani to pity.

He wasn't that confident in his success, but he had to hang on to it. A plan B, that was it, woven with the firm promise to never doubt Gabe's instructions anymore. It wasn't much, but it was something.

After dropping his hat and gun to his room he walked back to the restaurant. He'd been away for a solid half an hour, and this meant trouble. He schooled his stride to an accurate limp, ruffled his hair and pouted just enough to make his puppy eyes more believable.

As expected, the place was still crowded, probably even more so than when he'd left. He peeked from the back door and saw Annamaria slither, deft, among the tables. She looked a bit wilted around the edges, her hair sticking up on her head and her apron slightly askew, but every guest seemed to be enjoying their meal, so maybe his absence hadn't been that problematic.

He was about to sigh in relief – one less thing to worry about – when a shadow obscured the doorframe.

“ _Eccoti qui, sciagurato!”_

Mister Mantovani, fists on his hips and dark face even darker with outrage, was standing in McCree's way, radiating an aura of absolute disgust.

“Ah! Er... I had an accident”, McCree tried to say, infusing his voice with a trembling note and grimacing in an excessive display of suffering. “I was trying to...”

“I don't give a fuck about what happened to you! I've seen you with that Japanese guy, and I... I can't believe I've even hired you!”

McCree's blood froze.

Had his boss seen him fight? That was something not so easily explained, and McCree's brain started to roll at full speed.

An evil twin? A hallucination? A misunderstanding?

But Mantovani was relentless.

“I'll give you that, the customers like your attitude, but what the hell is wrong with you, Joel? You _insulted_ him! And what for? Some fruit on pizza?” The owner stomped his foot on the floor. There were beads of sweat on the bridge of his nose, and his voice was rising to a baritone thunder. “I'll put his mother on pizza if he pays enough for that! You don't have to like it – hell, pineapple is the devil's topping and I consider it an insult to my own ancestors too, but I'm a businessman! And he was a rich man ready to tip you, but no, you had to be rude and snarky and...”

Mantovani's voice melted in a slur of reprimands and Italian profanities, and McCree closed his eyes.

Alright, he was in trouble, but not that much in trouble.

“Yes, sir, I'm sorry but...”

“... and then you left, and look at you, you even ruined your uniform! Be glad that guy is more of a gentleman than you are, he didn't file a complaint and even gave this back”. The short Italian man slapped a rectangular shape in McCree's hand. “Leaving your phone on the table – were you trying to flirt, boy? I just can't...”

And again, McCree's attention drifted away.

That wasn't his phone. It was a possible problem, because Annamaria knew it – she'd seen him leave pretending to make a call, after all – but it was so much more. The screen was cracked all over, and there was a faint trace of blood in a corner, too minimal for someone who wasn't a covert ops agent to notice. Mantovani was still blabbering, but McCree barely heard him.

He quickly looked at the background picture, where Schiavoni was smiling at the camera, with a bright blue view of the sea behind him. Numbers, emails, messages, a note.

“... and then he gave me this thing and stormed off! I lost a customer because of you, and I won't tolerate this any longer! You're fired, Joel Morricone, you heard me? Fired!”

“I am... what?”

“Get out!” Mantovani yelled, pointing at the door.

McCree's face dropped. This was... unexpected.

“You can't fire me! I'm too skilled and too good lookin' for this!”

“ _Out_!”

Mantovani pushed him out of the restaurant and slammed the door in his face.

McCree blinked and staggered backward into the alley. The phone was solid and warm in his hand, and when shock (and outrage) subsided enough to let him regain some control over his thoughts, he looked down at the cracked screen.

Excitement settled in the pit of his stomach. Alright, he'd failed as a waiter, but the mission was not a complete disaster. He slowly walked away, eyes still on the phone. Oh, that was a goldmine – there were dozens of emails, and even a saved address in Maps. Schiavoni was either very self-assured or exceptionally dumb.

His hand went to the comm and fumbled for the switch.

_“Jesse McCree, you're in such a sea of trouble don't even get me started!”_ Gabe howled from the other side of the communication. “ _We were seconds from throwing caution out of the window and come to extract you – Genji, stand still, he's alive and well, you're not planting anyone's head on a pike. Damn, kid, you're glowing red, Moira, can you do something? No no fine, I get it, you don't want_ your _head on a pike...”_

McCree smirked and ignored the reprimands, still too interested in the content of the phone to properly listen. He went to the camera roll, and his heart immediately skipped a bit when he opened the first one.

Shirt crumpled and open down a pale and thick chest, the detail of a blue tattoo on his left shoulder, the archer was staring at him from a selfie. He was grinning in what could've seemed an allusive fashion, and there was a twinkle of defiance in his dark eyes – and he was blowing a kiss to the camera.

“ _... we'll have to investigate on the identity of that man you stumbled upon, but what matters now is that you're alive. Come find us double time for a report, I fear what you'll tell us...”_

McCree swallowed and momentarily got lost in that winking look.

_You adorable bastard..._

No, not now. The man was gone, and he didn't even know his name, and he had more pressing matters at hand. He sighed under his breath and deleted the picture with a sting of regret.

“ _Schiavoni being dead is not what we were going after, but...”_

“Hey, boss, let me speak, would you?”, he said, mostly to calm himself down and avert his brain from the beautiful stranger. “I have some good news and some bad news”.

_“Why am I not surprised? Start with the bad news, please”._

“I've been fired”.

“ _You... you... why? How? Moira, if I hear you saying 'told you so' one more time I swear to God I'll cut on your coffee supplies for the next six months! McCree, it was an easy job, what happened? Why...”_

McCree quickly scanned the rest of the pictures to find anything interesting, and he was not disappointed. His smile turned into the grin of a wolf after he'd locked on his prey.

Schiavoni hadn't meant to take that one specifically, it was slightly out of focus and partially obscured by a finger, but the man in a white suit was undeniably Antonio Bartalotti, and he was entering a warehouse with a cracked red sign dangling slightly to the left, reading “Magazzino – ovest”.

“ _... anyway, I need some good news. Please”._

“I've got this”, McCree whispered. His nose didn't hurt that bad anymore, and whatever resentment he could've harbored for the stranger was disappearing. Had he known his name, he would've sent a thank you letter, and maybe an invitation for a night out. “I know where Bartalotti is”.

The comm exploded with congratulations and loud cheers, but something still felt wrong at the bottom of McCree's satisfaction.

_I don't even know your name, darlin'. I'll never see you again._

 

_Eight years, a recall, a surprise reunion and several dates later..._

 

 

McCree was not a peculiarly proud man. He had no trouble admitting his mistakes, and sometimes he was happy with being proved wrong.

It had taken years, an adventurous path and a fortunate series of events, but he'd managed to reconnect with the mysterious archer from Venice.

Well, 'reconnect' was an understatement. Hanzo, recently back from a Russian mission, was sitting on McCree's bed, wearing nothing but a loose pair of sweatpants and fiddling with his phone.

“It's taking them too long. I'm hungry”, he grumbled, serious. When he looked up at McCree, though, he smiled with open complicity. “The journey was long, and I had no time to rest once I got back here...”

“That you didn't”, McCree chuckled, stretching in blissful abandonment at Hanzo's side. They'd spent the whole afternoon in bed indeed, but not to rest. He was alright with that. “Give the pizza man some time, you can't just drop by the secret base of an even more secret organization to deliver... what did you order again?”

A soft beep rang from the door, and both McCree and Hanzo jumped up – the conditioned reflex of fighters used to constant vigilance.

“Hey, guys, are you two wearing your underwear at least?” Genji called from outside. “Delivery for you”.

“Pizza!” McCree said. He jumped off the bed and to the door – he was wearing his underwear, at least. Genji had seen worse anyway.

He opened the door and was presented with a cyberninja holding three pizza boxes.

“You two owe me ten bucks each”, Genji said. He wasn't wearing his faceplate, and he visibly sniffed the delicious smell of cheese from the boxes. “Ah, wait, I've got to check which one's mine...”

“I got pepperoni and double mozzarella”, McCree said, impatient.

“I'm starving here! Brother, you're starving your own family”, Hanzo joked from the bed, and Genji shrugged.

“Killing each other is a clan ritual, have you forgotten? Here, let me see...” He lifted the boxes and squinted to look through the slightly open covers. “You got pineapple too, Hanzo?”

“Yeah”.

“Same as me. This means this one's yours, Jesse”. Genji took the bottom box and handed the two others to McCree, who took them with a nod and a smile. “Gotta go, Zen's waiting – he's not into pizza, but he's not into food in general”.

With one last wave of his hand, Genji blinked away.

McCree closed the door and stared down at the boxes.

It had started with a pineapple pizza, many years and miles ago. They'd come a long way – not strangers anymore; rivals at first, then friends, then lovers. Eventually, a couple.

But some things never changed.

He was glad they didn't.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, It's been a while :3  
> This story was written for the McHanzo Reverse BigBang, and I'm growing addicted to this event. My partner in crime is Amaerise, whose stunning art - no seriously everything she does is so soft and adorable, go check her work out - you can find [here](http://amaerise.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Oh, and in case you're wondering - yeah, pineapple pizza is frowned upon in Italy (both me and Amaerise are Italian). A *lot*. We just don't get it, and we're proud of our food indeed. Drop by and I'll happily show you what real pizza is. Honest.


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